


A Certainty I Envy

by hatrickane (dandelionwhiskey)



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Boston Bruins, Friends to Lovers, Grinding, Hand Jobs, Hook-Up, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Masturbation, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-16
Updated: 2018-07-19
Packaged: 2019-06-11 05:03:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15308076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dandelionwhiskey/pseuds/hatrickane
Summary: Jonny's rookie hook-up with Patrick set him down a different path than he'd imagined for himself.If only he could go back to 2007, he could stop it from ever happening and give himself the life he was supposed to have.





	1. (All The Ways) You Devastate Me

**Author's Note:**

> HOO BOY what an endeavor. Big thanks to [Rachel](http://kaneoodle.tumblr.com) as always for her beta work, to [liveinfurry](http://liveinfurry.tumblr.com) for her extra beta help.  
> And finally, a huge thanks to [namesintherafters](https://namesintherafters.tumblr.com/) for the awesome graphic!  
> Title from Straylight Run's [The Tension and the Terror.](https://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/straylightrun/thetensionandtheterror.html)

****  


**2007**   


Jonny was never much of a reader. 

His bookshelves were filled with trophies, dust gathering along the embossed letters of his name. His studying was reserved for complex strategies - analyzing the subtleties of his heroes so he could mimic them when he was on the ice. 

If Jonny read more, maybe he’d have the words to describe exactly what it was like to kiss Patrick Kane for the first time. 

Jonny was riding the high of his first NHL goal, holding a red solo cup between his teeth while he poured shots he technically wasn’t allowed to drink yet. The house party was in full swing; his teammates were scattered around him, singing karaoke or playing beer pong or having pseudo-intellectual conversations. 

But all Jonny could do was keep imagining that goal. He saw it over and over again in his mind; he felt the wind on his cheeks from his breakaway, heard Seabs and Duncs shouting encouragements from behind him. He felt the puck leave his stick and  _ then… _

A shiver worked its way down his spine. In that brief moment on the ice, all his hard work paid off and the excitement of what lay ahead coalesced and his heart nearly burst from his chest. He was saved by Patrick slamming into him and yelling into his ear, joy painted across his face. For the first time, Jonny really noticed his dimples. 

“I’m next,” Patrick announced as he plucked a shot from Jonny’s hands. His cheeks were pink with alcohol and he had the slightest sheen of sweat across his forehead. “Both for this shot, and the next goal.”

Jonny nodded firmly. Patrick had a lot of chances, but he hadn’t been able to capitalize on anything yet. “We’ll make it happen for you, bud.”

Patrick downed his shot and shoved the empty glass back at Sharpy. For all that they were eighteen and still growing into their limbs, they were starving. Jonny had never needed anything more than he needed another goal, another win, as many as he could get.

“You’d better.” Patrick poked Jonny hard in the chest. “No point in being on a line with you if you can’t set me up.” 

Jonny shoved Patrick away from him and spilled some of his cheap beer in the process. Patrick laughed, free and cheerful, and Jonny couldn’t help but crack a smile. The alcohol had him wrapped in a fuzzy cocoon, his skin humming for more contact. He lurched forward and slapped at Patrick some more in an attempt to get him riled up. 

Patrick took the bait. “Oh, it’s on.” He pushed Jonny until they were all but wrestling, drinks forgotten in favor of rough-housing. Some people were cheering them on, but even Jonny wasn’t sure what for. There was no end goal. Just touching, pinning, overpowering - and Jonny was winning. 

He got Patrick up against a wall and pressed his face into the peeling wallpaper. From there, Jonny could see the barest trickle of sweat slide down the curve of Patrick’s neck. He licked his lips. 

“Gotcha,” Jonny murmured into his ear. Patrick wriggled back against him, but it was to no avail.

“Yeah, whatever, you brute. Lemme go.” Jonny didn’t want to. It was inexplicable, how he felt with Patrick pinned like this, pressed together from chest to toe. Reluctantly, he pulled back, but he could still feel the shape of Patrick’s body against the front of his t-shirt. 

When Patrick turned around, his eyes were glassy and bright, a little wild, like he didn’t know where to look. His lips were pulled up into a half-smile. Jonny cleared his throat and nodded toward where Seabs was giving Duncs a piggy-back ride. 

“Gonna get another drink,” he said, and Patrick shrugged. The light dimmed in his eyes and he punched Jonny’s shoulder before turning away, no doubt seeking his own beer. Jonny watched him go, eyes slipping down the curve of his back. 

There was a charge between them for the rest of the night. Wherever Jonny was in at the party, he was hyper-aware of Patrick’s presence - and he was pretty sure Patrick was watching him, too. They kept meeting eyes over the beer pong table, or in line for the bathroom, or out back by the hot tub. 

Jonny had felt like this before, in sixth grade. Penny Halverson pulled her long blonde hair up into a ponytail in gym class, and Jonny was transfixed as it swayed while she ran drills. There was a tug in his stomach that made him want to run up to her and touch her hair, run his fingers through the soft strands. 

He’d felt it once again at a Thrashers game when he was sixteen. Jim Slater, playing #19, slapped a beauty right down center ice and sank it into the back of the net. The goaltender didn’t stand a chance. As Jonny leapt out of his seat with the rest of the crowd, he felt that inexplicable urge to storm the ice and jump into Slater’s arms. 

He felt it again with the tightness of Patrick’s curls and with the way he moved on the ice. It was a magnetic pull that they fought against for a reason Jonny wasn’t entirely sure of. He often laid awake in their shared hotel room, listening to Patrick breathe, and pressed his hand between his legs to relieve the tension. 

The party started winding down eventually and Jonny was pleasantly drunk. He knew he’d have a stomach ache in the morning, maybe a headache, but at that moment he felt like he could run ten miles. Sharpy was lecturing him on media scrums through slurred words while Jonny listened intently, positive he wouldn’t remember any of it. 

Patrick rounded the corner and Jonny’s attention was on him immediately. His shirt was all rucked up, like he’d been tugging at it too much, and his hair was sticking up. Jonny wanted to smooth him down, clean him up. Patrick’s eyes met his and before he knew it, Jonny was standing, making his way over. 

They stood silently in front of each other for a moment. Jonny reached out slowly and flattened down Patrick’s hair, his fingers lingering just a little too long on his scalp. 

“Can I talk to you?” Patrick said. His voice was low, rough, like he’d been shouting all night. Jonny felt electricity sparking down his limbs. 

“Sure.”

They started moving at the same time, shoulders bumping as they walked down a hallway to find an empty room. It was unspoken, but Jonny’s body was buzzing with anticipation, his heart a steady thump against his ribs. Eventually, Patrick found one that was unoccupied and ushered Jonny in by the small of his back.

It was some kind of den. A ratty couch sat near a bookshelf half-full of dusty, untouched books. Jonny could relate. He turned to ask Patrick what he wanted to talk about, but before he could say a word he was hauled in by the front of his shirt until he stumbled forward and pinned Patrick up against the closed door.

They stood there for a long moment, just breathing. Staring right at each other. Jonny had flashes of Penny’s hair, of Slater’s goal, and neither memory held a candle to this moment. His fingers flexed on Patrick’s shoulders. Patrick squeezed Jonny’s hip. 

It didn’t happen quickly. Jonny inched forward, then Patrick did, neither willing to make that final move to bridge the distance completely. He could feel Patrick’s breath on his lips. He could taste the beer Patrick had been drinking earlier that evening. Jonny reached up to cup Patrick’s cheek; he was getting desperate to feel the skin under his fingers. The slightest burst of patchy stubble. The smoothness of his jawline, still pillowed with baby fat. He got to Patrick’s chin, pressing into the dimple there, when they finally closed the gap.

Once the levee broke, Jonny lost control of his own body. His hands pushed Patrick’s shirt up without hesitation, and when Patrick gasped in response, Jonny slid his tongue into his mouth.

Patrick was fierce. He kissed back unrelentingly, matching Jonny’s intensity as it ramped up faster and faster. Jonny stroked his hands down Patrick’s bare sides, tickling his ribs and earning a buck of his hips for his effort. Jonny grunted and moved forward to slide his thigh between Patrick’s legs.

The response was instantaneous; Patrick groaned and rubbed up against Jonny’s thigh for a few moments, until Jonny could tell how hard he was through his jeans. Jonny pulled back, hand cupping the back of Patrick’s head, and tried to meet his eyes. 

But Patrick wouldn’t let him. He kissed Jonny again, pushing off of the wall to walk him over to the couch. Jonny fell into a sitting position and Patrick crawled right into his lap, knees spread and ass right on top of Jonny’s dick. 

“Patrick-”

“Shut  _ up _ ,” Patrick growled, kissed Jonny again, and started to move in his lap. He rocked his hips, grinding back against Jonny’s dick and forward against his stomach, where Jonny could feel Patrick’s hard-on. It couldn’t have been comfortable.

He unbuttoned Patrick’s pants without breaking the kiss and stuck his hand in, surprised by the warmth he found there. Patrick didn’t protest, just pushed himself into Jonny’s fumbling hands. 

Jonny had been with a few girls before. He was intimately familiar with the awkwardness that accompanied your first time with someone. With Patrick, it was there, but it was almost as if none of it mattered. He knew how a dick worked, knew where to touch it and what would feel good. Touching Patrick felt easy, and he wasn’t surprised how into it they both were.

But Patrick wouldn’t let him talk. If he tried, he just got kissed again, or a hand clamped over his mouth, or Patrick grabbed his cock through his jeans to shut him up. It worked. Jonny decided to leave any clarifying conversations until morning and let Patrick touch him, get him off, embed his scent in Jonny’s skin.

//

The conversation Jonny wanted didn’t come in the morning, though.

He woke up on the couch, clothes still askew, sticky and stained with the fuzzy memories of the night before. He smiled, though - gently touched his neck where Patrick had left a mark, and gathered himself up to leave. 

Jonny couldn’t shake the feeling that this was the start of something important. 

He tried to send Patrick a text the next day, but he didn’t hear back. He figured, well, Patrick was probably as hungover as he was and needed a break from everything. So, he let him off the hook. He took a nap. Ate too much Mexican food for lunch. Drank water. Went to the gym.

But at practice the following day, Patrick still wouldn’t look at him. He skated away from Jonny, doing drills with Sharpy, leaving Jonny to partner up with Seabs.

“Lover’s quarrel?” Seabs asked, tapping Jonny’s ass with his stick. At Jonny’s despondent look, Seabs dropped the grin and raised an eyebrow. “Hey, I was just-”

“It’s fine.” Jonny pushed a smile. “We fought at the party the other night.”

Seabs dropped it, but he didn’t look completely satisfied. Jonny just let him pull them both into a stickhandling drill and tried to ignore how Patrick would look his way and then avoid eye contact. How he’d laugh, full-bodied and dimpled up, and then it would slip if Jonny caught his eye.

It didn’t make any sense. Jonny had hoped they could at least talk about what happened between them, maybe establish some rules. He wouldn’t say no to making out again. There was still an unbearable draw between them, worse now that Jonny had a taste. 

They lost the next game. Patrick was lackluster on their line, refusing to pass to Jonny or even to receive passes from him. They still hadn’t spoken and Jonny wanted to scream at him on the bench. He wanted to demand that Patrick keep his eyes open, put himself in better positions, stop showboating. But Patrick felt so far away from him that Jonny didn’t feel like he could press. 

Jonny finally managed to corner Patrick a few days later on their way out of the locker room. Patrick tried to shove past him, but Jonny put his hands on Patrick’s chest and pushed him back into the room, kicking the door shut behind him.

“What the fuck,” Patrick grumbed.

“My thoughts exactly,” Jonny hissed, crossing his arms over his chest. “You just going to ignore me forever?”

“I was trying to.” Patrick shifted his bag to his other shoulder. “Look, there’s nothing to talk about.”

Jonny’s stomach clenched up so hard he thought he’d double over. Patrick wouldn’t meet his eyes, so Jonny just took a step backward and swallowed. His mouth was dry. 

“You, uh. Nothing to talk about, huh?” Jonny said quietly.

“Nope.” Patrick shook his head. “Can’t talk about something that never happened.”

Jonny felt a sting at the back of his throat, one that trickled up his jaw and pricked at his eyes. He moved out of the way and tried not to flinch when Patrick just left him there like that, alone and confused, in the empty locker room.

He had thought they were in this together.

He tried to take it in stride when Patrick asked to room with someone else on road trips.

He tried to understand that they just didn’t have the chemistry they thought they did on their line, and when he dropped to second string, it made sense that Patrick got his first goal with an assist from Sharpy a few months later. 

At the celebration party, Sharpy tackled him from behind and made him drop his beer. He shoved him off and glared at him. 

“Oh, take it easy, Mr. Serious,” Sharpy laughed, rubbing his knuckles on Jonny’s head. “There’s plenty of booze left.”

Jonny rubbed at his eye with the heel of his hand. He didn’t have the energy to fight. “Yeah, okay. You’re right.” 

Sharpy made a face. “Jeeze, way to take the fun out of it. Fine, I’ll come up with something else.” 

After racking up a few losses, Jonny was pretty sure Patrick got some words from Savard, because he plopped down next to Jonny at team breakfast and gave him a sharp nod. 

“Sup.”

Jonny blinked at him. “Hey.”

“I’m sorry, y’know. For being an asshole.” He was mumbling, shifty-eyed. “It’s just a thing, you know?”

“What,” Jonny said, but Patrick was shaking his head vigorously. 

“I don’t want to  _ talk _ about it,” he said, his voice pitching up a bit higher. “We can be cool, right, and just not talk about it?”

Jonny’s head was swimming. He’d been hoping Patrick would eventually approach him, try to have this conversation, but he’d never expected it’d go like this. He frowned down at the hotel breakfast menu and thought about how Patrick’s lips had felt on his neck. 

“We don’t have to talk about it,” Jonny said after a long moment. Patrick seemed to brighten, and it was embarrassing how Jonny’s stomach flipped at the sight. “We’re just here to play hockey, eh?”

Patrick nodded slowly. “We’re still teammates.”

“Of course.” Jonny knew that hockey came first. Winning that Cup meant everything to Jonny, and if that would require him to let Patrick take point, then that’s what he’d have to do. 

//

So, they never talked about it. Patrick stopped ignoring Jonny pretty quickly after that, but he’d already built up so much energy with Sharpy that Jonny didn’t get to play with him too often. Sometimes during practice, Patrick would give Jonny this fiercely competitive look and tap sticks with him - Jonny’s heart would clench and he’d fumble, giving Patrick the advantage.

It wasn’t a good look. 

They were sitting next to each other on the plane one day – in one of those four-way seats, playing cards with Steegs and Duncs – and Patrick’s elbow was way too far over on Jonny’s armrest. Jonny knocked at it with his own and Patrick fumbled, dropping his cards onto his fold-out table.

He mock-glared at Jonny while Duncs cracked up, and Jonny wanted to kiss the smirk right off of his face. “Dirty pool, Taze,” Patrick said, clicking his tongue, and Jonny fell for him.

There must have been some indication on Jonny’s face, because Patrick’s expression became more neutral as he unbuckled his seatbelt. “I gotta piss. Scoot, loser.” 

Jonny reluctantly stood up to let Patrick slide past him. He didn’t come back for the rest of the flight. 

Patrick was like that. He’d get distant for weeks at a time, racking up assists, then suddenly treat Jonny like any other teammate. It was like whiplash, but the ache became familiar.

When Bickell was out of their shared hotel room, Jonny would take his time. He’d drag his fingers up and down his bare sides, eliciting a shiver from the tickle of it. As his dick fattened up, Jonny would just rest his palm over the swell of it until it poked out of the top of his boxers.

Jonny liked to thumb at his foreskin. He kept his eyes shut, pretending it was someone curious and exploratory who was pulling at his sensitive skin. He stayed tentative, slow, as if someone was touching him for the first time. 

But it would always become too much. His thighs would tense and relax, hips rolling into his own palm, as Jonny recalled the tug of Patrick’s teeth against his neck. He remembered the hasty way Patrick had touched him, like he wanted to crawl into Jonny’s lap and grind against him until they were both a mess.

The memories amped him up, got him desperate, until he pushed his boxers down to his knees and wrapped his hand around himself. He wouldn’t stroke, instead opting to thrust into his grip like he was fucking. He rolled over on his stomach, hips pumping into his hand until sweat pricked up on his skin.

Eventually, he ended up gripping the pillow with both hands. As he rolled his hips down into the hotel sheets, he’d bite his lip to keep from making any noise louder than his ragged gasps. It was unbelievable, he thought, how hot he would get just thinking about Patrick’s hands on him. He’d hump his mattress until he was ready to come, conjuring up his favorite image: Patrick’s fucked-out face, seconds after orgasming, eyes glassy and lips red from biting. The memory of it always hit Jonny hard. 

He would lay there afterward, cock slick and wet, trying to even out his breathing. Sometimes, he would call housekeeping to change the sheets. Most of the time, he’d just stay there, little twitches of his hips dragging the sensitive head of his dick through the mess. Sometimes, that was enough to get him riled up again.

Jonny wondered if Patrick knew what went on his head. It felt like it; the way Patrick would peer at him was like he was looking right into Jonny’s soul. All it did was fuel his fire. He only wished he could channel his frustration into hockey.

Over cereal one morning, Jonny idly flipped to ESPN - Q had apparently done an interview on WSCR, talking about how the season was going. Nausea set in as he pushed his bowl of food away, arm curled over his stomach.

“Obviously, uh, we have areas we can improve in,” Q was saying. 

“How do you feel about the performance of your two potential stars, Patrick Kane and Jonathan Toews?”

“Kaner has been really producing, really producing. He’s been an excellent support for our top lines.” Q was nodding a lot. “He’s still young, has some distance to go, but he’ll find his groove. As for Jonny-” 

Jonny turned off the television. He didn’t need to hear Q say how he was underperforming, how he was working his ass off but just couldn’t find the opportunities he needed. He and Kaner had the same low number of goals, but Kaner’s eagle-eye had him assisting left and right. 

Jonny could never seem to put himself in the right spot at the right time. The reporters stopped asking about him after a while.

They lost that season, and the next one, and the next one. They almost made the playoffs in 2011, but dropped it in March, so close they could have tasted it.

It was late August in 2012 when Jonny’s phone started ringing off the hook sometime around eleven. He stared at it. Patrick had never called him, maybe a text from time to time but never a phone call. He had an inkling he knew what it was about.

“Patrick?” He answered.

“They’re doing it,” Patrick responded miserably. “The lockout. We’re not playing.” 

“I know,” Jonny sighed. “How long do you think it's going to be?”

“Who the fuck knows?” 

Jonny hesitated before asking the obvious question. “Why, uh, why are you calling me about it? Shouldn’t you-”

“You’re the only person who gets it,” Patrick groaned. “No hockey, maybe for the whole year?” 

Jonny’s whole body tingled. The news was devastating, but somehow Patrick’s faith that Jonny could commiserate was erasing his disappointment. “It’s going to suck,” he said, trying to keep the smile out of his voice. Maybe the whole summer in Chicago, with Patrick, watching the news and being involved in negotiations - it could be the start of something deeper, without the team involved. 

“I’m thinking of playing somewhere else.”

“Oh.” Jonny’s throat closed up and he had to cough to clear the sudden well of emotion. “What if - what if the lockout ends?”

“Then I guess I’ll come back,” Patrick said. His voice sounded a little desperate, kind of wild. “I just can’t take a year off, we’re already struggling.” 

“I should go, too,” Jonny offered before thinking about it. Patrick paused for a long time, his silence pressing heavily on the back of Jonny’s neck, before he laughed mirthlessly. 

“Nah, Jonny, they need you there. They need a leader.”

“I’m not a leader,” Jonny mumbled. “I’m not the captain, I’m barely even important.”

“You’re important,” Patrick said softly. It felt like a punch to the chest, all the air suddenly disappearing from Jonny’s lungs. He took a shaky breath in and didn’t answer right away, aware that his own silence was just as heavy as Patrick’s. 

He shifted his phone to the other ear and sighed. “Patrick...” 

“I gotta go, Jonny. I’ll - I’ll talk to you soon.” Patrick hung up before Jonny had the chance to respond. 

Unsurprisingly, they didn’t talk soon. 

During the lockout, Patrick went to play in Switzerland and Jonny sat on his hands. He worked out, took the occasional call from a reporter, and found out he had a gluten and protein deficiency. That explained a lot. 

He tried going out a few times, hooking up, but nothing ever felt right. He was itchy for the ice, felt like he was losing any edge he may have gained the previous year. Jonny’s contract was up this year and without one another chance to prove himself, he was deeply anxious.

“You have got to chill,” Seabs said one night. “This is a sports bar and you’re eating a fucking salad.”

“I get sick easily,” Jonny mumbled, stabbing at the sad romaine lettuce. 

“The lockout will end soon, Tazer.” Jonny looked up at him, unable to keep the exhaustion and desperation off of his face. “We’ll all be back together soon.”

Patrick came back from Switzerland in January, right before the lockout officially ended. He bounced into the team meeting with new energy, hair trimmed short, and wide, dimpled grin brightening the room. Jonny crossed his legs.

The team hammered him with questions about the country, his teammates, about Tyler Seguin and if the rumors about Boston were true. Patrick laughed and answered them in stride. Jonny stood on the sidelines, pretending to busy himself by reading the new league guidelines as dictated by the lockout. Patrick’s eyes would flick over to Jonny from time to time, until finally he tore himself away from the crowd to sit down next to him.

“Hey.”

“Hey, Kaner,” Jonny said. He put down the packet he was reading and offered a hand for Patrick to shake. But Patrick gave him an incredulous look and knocked it away to give him an awkward seated hug. 

“Good to see you,” Patrick said. His breath tickled Jonny’s ear. 

“Uh, yeah, you too.” It wasn’t a lie, exactly, but Jonny didn’t know  _ how _ he felt about seeing Patrick again. He pulled out of the hug and tried to pretend he didn’t take a deep lungful of Patrick’s scent. 

“I learned a lot in Switzerland,” Patrick said, holding Jonny’s gaze a bit too intently. “Next season is going to be a good year, Jonny.” 

Jonny felt warmth blooming in his chest, spreading through his veins. He couldn’t help but grin. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Patrick grabbed Jonny’s knee and shook it. “Real good. We could get the Cup, man.” 

The Cup. Jonny could almost picture it, lifting it up with Patrick at his side, hearing the roaring crowd, sweat slicking their hair down and soaking their under armor as they skated around the rink. He wanted it.

“Let’s do it,” Jonny said breathlessly.

In July, Jonny got traded to the Boston Bruins for Tyler Seguin. 

//

It made sense, Jonny told himself. Rising star Seguin, party boy, needed to get out of Boston to get a fresh start. Jonny, reliable but underperforming, needed a new team to freshen up his playing style. He would be good for the Bruins, a second-line center who could consistently put up points for them. Maybe he’d find that magic chemistry he’d been searching for since he got drafted.

He still cried. 

He got calls from Seabs and Sharpy, from his mother, his agent, his new teammates. He answered them all. He talked about it for a weekend straight while his Chicago apartment got packed up around him. Patrick didn’t even text him. Probably for the best.

Both Jonny and Seguin were #19. Neither needed to change their numbers for their new teams. 

The flight to Boston was excruciating. He clenched and unclenched his fists, grit his teeth to keep from growling in frustration. This was the job, he’d remind himself, this was what he signed up for when he started this journey as a kid. It probably wouldn’t even be the last time he was traded.

What he couldn’t help thinking, though, was about how much time Patrick and Seguin had spent together in Biel. How Patrick had pulled him aside, excited, talking about how the Hawks were going to win this year. How Patrick didn’t even text him goodbye.

It was only natural for him to wonder if Patrick had suggested this trade. He had clout with the team, watched Seguin play for months, built up chemistry with him. He was young and could be molded into what the Blackhawks needed to match up with Patrick’s skill level. They could be a powerhouse. 

The plane landed hard and jerked Jonny out of his meltdown before it reached its peak. When he turned his phone back on, a slew of alerts of texts and missed calls poured in, but he was too tired to go through them. He just hit delete, pocketed his phone, and trudged out of the plane, a pressure behind his eyes like he’d never felt before.

Boston was fine to him. The players were more rowdy on the ice, had a few pounds on Jonny, but they accepted him into the fold and taught him their style. He did okay. There were still nights he ached for Chicago. He watched Blackhawks games. Patrick did build up a good chemistry with Seguin, but they didn’t often play on the same line. Jonny wondered why.

There was a preseason game against the Blackhawks in Boston that Jonny played in, but Patrick didn’t. He got some hugs and kind words from the few people he recognized. He played like shit and they lost 2-6.

Their first regular season match-up against the Hawks didn’t come until March. Jonny hadn’t heard from Patrick all year, but he hadn’t reached out, either. He was dreading going back the UC. His teammates were riling him up, trying to get him pumped and ready, but Jonny just felt miserable.

“Come on,” Marchy said as they were lacing up their skates for warm-ups. “This is your chance to show them they fucked up by trading you, man.”

Jonny nodded glumly. “You guys excited to see Seguin?”

There were a few nods and hums of confirmation over the sound of sticks being taped up. “Yeah, of course, Seggy is a good time. Seems like he’s chilled out a lot, being here.” 

The subject change worked. They started telling old stories that Jonny could tune out, focusing instead on his anticipation and anxiety. By the time they were headed out to the ice, his jitters had reached full capacity.

“What’s your deal?” Lucic asked while they walked.

“He’s excited to see his ex-lovers,” Jagr shouted from somewhere. “Don’t worry, baby, we’re the new and improved model.” 

Jonny flipped him off, uneasy with how close he was to guessing the truth. 

When they did hit the ice, though, Jonny was overwhelmed. The whole Blackhawks roster skated up to him at one point, gave him fist bumps, asked how he was doing. Seabs even talked about how he was playing a little better and hoped he felt it too. Jonny mumbled his way through  _ thank you _ and you  _ too, man _ while trying not to stare over their shoulders to spot Patrick’s jersey.

He was busy chatting with Seguin at the boards while they did some leg stretches. He looked intent on whatever he was saying, gesturing sharply with his gloved hands. Their jerseys were lined up, 19 and 88, and something ugly twisted inside Jonny. It wasn’t right. 

Jonny turned away and focused on warming up with his team. He shot pucks at Rask and even managed to get a few in. Just as he was starting to get wrapped up in it, he felt a tap at his back. 

He turned, expecting to see Marchy, but instead it was Patrick. He had a sheepish look on his face and Jonny’s vision nearly pinpointed. 

“Hey, dude,” Patrick said. “Good to see you.” 

“Is it?” Jonny asked acidly. He softened immediately afterward, though, shaking his head. “That was uncool. Sorry. It’s weird being back.”

Patrick looked taken aback nonetheless. He rubbed the top of his stick absentmindedly. “I, uh. Haven’t heard from you.”

Jonny shrugged. “Haven’t heard from you either. You’re having a good season.”

“I didn’t know,” Patrick said hurriedly. “I didn’t know about the trade.”

Jonny blinked. The clock was running low and they didn’t have time to discuss it. “It doesn’t really matter, Kaner.” 

Patrick looked helpless. 

“I’m not mad,” Jonny assured him, and was surprised to realize that was the truth. “We’re good, man.”

The clock buzzed and Jonny offered Patrick a smile as he skated backward toward his side. “Winner buys the loser dinner,” he shouted. Patrick gave him an unsure smile and nodded firmly, sealing the deal.

The Bruins won in the third, 3-2, Jonny with the game winner. 

//

After the game, Patrick gave Jonny a cheeky grin outside of the locker room. “Coulda had you there,” he said, “but we’re getting expensive steaks.” 

“Yeah, whatever,” Jonny said, but he was smiling, too. 

They ended up at Gibson’s a few hours later, half-eaten steaks in front of them while they moved on to their third drinks. Jonny was floating. Patrick was being easy and generous with him, laughing at his jokes, keeping his wine glass full. 

Patrick told him stories about Switzerland and Jonny regaled him with Bruins gossip. It felt normal. 

Jonny got up to piss and, standing there at the urinal, stomach full of steak and red wine, his mood shifted. It had been such a good night; a win under his belt against his old team, hanging casually with Patrick. Everything seemed so easy.

Patrick felt guilty, though, Jonny realized. He thought Jonny blamed him for the trade, he thought he’d been responsible for getting Jonny’s hopes up. Patrick was buttering him up with this pseudo-date because he thought that was what Jonny wanted. 

The most frustrating thing was, he wasn’t wrong. Jonny zipped up and washed his hands for too long, staring at himself in the mirror. He looked tired, all of a sudden, unhappiness etched around his eyes. 

When he left the bathroom, Patrick was beaming at him from the table, gesturing at the new bottle of wine he’d ordered. Jonny slapped on a smile and sat back at the table, wriggling his empty glass.

“You know,” Patrick said, “I really think we could be friends. Right?”

“Yeah.” Jonny pushed at his vegetables with his fork. “I mean, we are, sort of, aren’t we?”

Patrick pursed his lips. “I think so. I hope so.” 

Jonny honored Patrick’s request from so many years ago. They didn’t talk about it. Maybe they could have been better friends, if that had never happened. Maybe they could have been better teammates. Jonny wasn’t sure.

What he did know, is that he would let Patrick have this. He’d absolve him of his guilt, so long as he could still have nights like this whenever they played in each other’s cities. If this was the only way he could have Patrick, he’d take it. 

They ordered separate cabs and Patrick gave Jonny a tight hug right before they separated. “We’re good?” He asked. 

“We’re good,” Jonny confirmed. “Next time you’re in town.”

“Cool.” Patrick lingered a minute longer, then shook his head, and turned around to catch his cab. 

//

Jonny was high off of it for days. 

Nothing changed. They didn’t text or call. But Jonny got a new pang in his stomach when he saw Patrick on television or heard an announcer mention his name. Just seeing him had reinvigorated the dormant crush and he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

He jerked off like he did back when he was a rookie, grinding his hard dick into his mattress until he came so hard he needed a few minutes to recover. 

He couldn’t help but ask himself, what if he’d never hooked up with Patrick that night? Could he have had this high all the time? Being around him was intoxicating and Jonny wasn’t sure if he could put up with a couple of bumps a year.

But he did. Whenever they played against each other, their dinner bet stood. It stayed even throughout the years, both teams climbing to the playoffs but never managing to seal the deal. 

Patrick broke his collarbone in late 2014 and Jonny didn't hear from him for months during his recovery. When the Bruins wiped the floor with the Hawks on a day Patrick was out, Jonny turned on his phone after the game to a slew of painkiller-addled rants about how this one didn't count.

They played against each other in the 2015 Winter Classic, buried under thick, wet snowflakes, and Patrick snuck a handful of slush into Jonny's glove. 

In December of 2016, Jonny got a wedding invitation in the mail and his heart sank to his knees. It was bound to happen eventually - Patrick had been mentioning her for awhile now - but the reality of it in his hands was almost too much. 

He’d played for the Blackhawks for six years. The better part of a decade spent desperately trying to prove himself, but never quite getting there. Six years of hoping, one day, Patrick might come around and they could talk about what happened their rookie year. After three years in Boston, nine years in the fucking league, he had nothing to show for it but a couple of team photos and a very mild reputation. 

He kicked around his apartment sullenly, alternating between staring at the invitation and starting at the ceiling. 

“This is unhealthy,” he said aloud to himself that night, facedown in his bed. Something needed to change, but Jonny didn’t know what. He never knew what to do. 

He found himself pacing his apartment, looking up at his trophy case that commemorated his career. His World Juniors medals, his Blackhawks jersey, his first goal puck. His head went fuzzy as he stared at that puck. 

That was the night everything went wrong. He could have prevented it with just a modicum of self-control. He and Patrick would have stayed on the same line, maybe even continued rooming together, maybe could have been friends. Maybe something else. 

He picked up the puck and turned it around in his hands, thinking hard about that whole night. He could picture it like it was yesterday, despite it being so many years ago. It was like he could taste the cheap beer, smell Sharpy’s shitty cologne. He could even feel the ache in his shoulder from where he’d been hit that night. 

Jonny’s head began to swirl as he lost his balance and had to catch it against the cabinet. He was still gripping the puck hard, unable to drop it, as a loud pounding in his ears started up. It was arhythmic against the beat of his heart, but loud, so loud, and Jonny’s vision went dark. 

The pounding increased and Jonny realized it was a bass beat. It was music. He tried blinking the darkness away and slowly it faded back blurrily. What was that music? Jonny clenched his teeth and steadied himself against the cabinet, breaths coming sharp and ragged.

“Whoa, looks like Mr. Serious has had a little too much to drink,” said a voice, and Jonny jumped out of his skin. 

“What the fuck,” he said loudly, and got a laugh from the voice in return. The music was so loud and Jonny could just barely see a shape through his blurry eyes. 

“Oh, man, you hate that. It’s sticking around, Mr. Serious.” 

That sounded like - “Sharpy?” 

“Dude, are you okay? I think you need some water.”

“I’m not - what are you doing here?”

“Uh, it’s my party, asshole.” 

Jonny finally blinked all the blurriness away and standing in front of him was Patrick Sharp. But not the Patrick Sharp he’d seen a few months earlier in Chicago. His cheeks were wider and his hair was longer and he was at least nine years younger.

**2007 - Again**

“What the fuck,” Jonny said again. Young-Sharpy shoved a bottle of water into his hands and ruffled his hair. 

“Take it easy on the tequila, buddy. I think the worm is making you hallucinate.”

Jonny looked down at the puck he was holding and felt a wave of nausea when he saw a red solo cup instead. He looked around and it was a party, throngs of drunk people playing beer pong and standing on tables. Jonny must have hit his head when he passed out back in his Boston apartment. 

He shoved past Sharpy in pursuit of a bathroom when he passed Seabs giving Duncs a piggy back ride. It slowly, sickeningly, dawned on him. This wasn’t any party, it was  _ the _ party, his first-goal party. He was going to be ill. 

He managed to find an unoccupied bathroom where he could puke his guts out. Panic was setting in, dimming his vision again, and he wondered if he closed his eyes hard enough he’d end up right back home where he belonged.

But nothing worked. He tried splashing water on his face, clicking his heels, smacking his head against the wall. He was stuck here at this fucking party and had no idea what to do. 

Slowly, he opened the door, and tiptoed out into the party. Maybe he could just call a cab and go - what, home? What was his address back then? He pulled out his phone - a shitty brick Nokia - and almost laughed with hysterics. 

“Whoa, you okay?” His head snapped up. 

Patrick was standing there, all of 18 years old, reaching out to steady Jonny by the shoulders. His hands felt like a brand. “I know it’s your celebration and all, but maybe it’s time to chill.”

“I’m not drunk,” Jonny muttered. “I’m - I don’t know what.”

Patrick raised an eyebrow. “C’mon,” he murmured, took Jonny by the hand and started to lead him through the party until they were in the backyard where people were smoking pot and sleeping in the grass. “Better?”

“Yeah,” Jonny said, breathing in the cool air. “I think so.”

Patrick ran his fingers through his curly hair and it stuck up, in just the same spot, in just the same way, as it had the first time around. Jonny’s fingers twitched with the urge to smooth it out, but his eyes widened when he realized what might be going on. 

This was his second chance. This could change everything, if he just held back, didn’t fuck up the blossoming friendship he and Patrick could have. So, he sat on his hands and smirked.

“Your hair is sticking up. You looking fucking ridiculous.”

Patrick glared at him and smoothed it down himself.


	2. Whether We're Supposed to or Not, We Still Will

The night was different. There was no tension, no urge to drag each other off into a corner and rub off on each other. They played beer pong and won. They dumped ice down Sharpy’s shirt. They arm wrestled and Patrick beat him and wouldn’t let him forget it all night.

Even if this was a dream, Jonny wanted to live it out until the very end.

At the end of the night, Patrick was slumped against Jonny, grinning and lightly punching his arm. “You said you’d get me that goal, right?”

“Soon as I can,” Jonny promised.

If it was a dream, it was a damn realistic one.

He woke up the next day with a real hangover and a real need for a shower and a change of clothes. The differences started immediately after that, though.

“Breakfast!” Patrick shouted cheerfully, leaping on top of Jonny and shaking his shoulders. “Come on, I need pancakes.”

“Can’t eat gluten,” Jonny grumbled, trying to shove Patrick off of him.

“What the fuck is gluten,” Patrick said. “Whatever, get sausage or whatever.”

“I can’t eat that eith- what - let me sleep,” he whined. Patrick managed to tug him up anyway.

They stepped over all the people sleeping and slipped out the door, getting in Patrick’s beater and driving to the nearest diner. Jonny stared out the window in wonder. This was Chicago, but not, so many businesses in the wrong spots and buildings under construction. It was Chicago in 2007, back when the world was at his doorstep.

Patrick gave him a funny look when he ordered steamed vegetables. “What is this weird diet,” he complained. “I saw you house half a case of White Castle a few weeks ago.”

“I, uh,” Jonny said, rubbing the back of his head. “I think I have some allergies. Just trying out something new.”

“Lame.” Patrick ordered a second milkshake.

Jonny realized quickly how careful he had to be. He had to remember the correct rosters from almost a decade ago, important dates, details. Patrick was firing them off like it was nothing but Jonny was forced to reach back as far as he could to a time he’d basically blocked out. He was so miserable during these few years that he could only vaguely remember anything he did.

What he did know, now, was how to play hockey. He was already good, but with the knowledge under his belt that the past nine years of experience had given him, he was better than he should have been for a rookie. He got more opportunities, got to stay up on the first line more often, got to play with Patrick.

Patrick got his first NHL goal months earlier this time, just a few games after Jonny. Still on an assist from Sharpy, but nice and clean and well-deserved. Jonny gave him a hug afterward, because he _could_ , because the biggest difference was that he and Patrick were actually friends.

They did press together, roomed together, told dumb stories about each other. Jonny was around Patrick so much he actually started to pick up on some of his bad habits. They bickered. Patrick was suddenly a whole person, not just this ideal that Jonny had been pining over for nearly a decade.

But Jonny loved him.

It was easier to love him like that. Instead of being overwhelmed by him twice a year, Jonny had a direct line and a best friend. Sure, there were times he’d catch himself watching Patrick sleep and wanting to slip into the bed next to him. Of course, being around him still made Jonny’s skin itch. But it was better this way.

Because the best part was, they started to win. A lot.

Even when Jonny was named Captain, unexpectedly and unanimously at the end of his ‘rookie’ year, he had a hard time feeling guilty. It felt too good.

In their third season together, Jonny felt unstoppable. They struggled, but pulled out win after win and hitting that playoff ice for the first time with the Blackhawks jersey on his back felt like everything was worth it. All that lost time being miserable, he had back, and he was going to take full advantage of it.

They fought hard through the playoffs until suddenly, they were in the goddamn Stanley Cup Finals against the Flyers. It was unbelievable. Everything in Jonny’s career had led to this moment, captaining his team through a hard fight to take home that trophy.

“Tonight’s the night, boys,” he said in the locker room. The energy was palpable. It was game six, they were up by one, and they could end it all right here. “Let’s not have a game seven.”

They pushed hard. They had a few setbacks, lost a few key goals, ended up in OT. Jonny was shaking with how close they were. It was unlike any feeling he’d ever had before, and Patrick was right next to him with the same energy. “I got this,” Patrick kept saying, “I got it. I got it.”

And he did.

Jonny was among the people who didn’t realize what was happening when Patrick dropped his gloves, the whole crowd confused and murmuring, but when the reality sunk in he was up and off the bench and in Patrick’s arms before he had a chance to think.

“You did it, baby!” He shouted, clinging to his jersey. Patrick gave him the widest, most open grin and didn’t even have a chance to respond before he was tackled by half the team. They’d won, Jonny had fulfilled his dream, and Patrick had made it happen.

Later, his shirt soaked with champagne, Jonny realized how much stronger they were together. He’d missed out on so much, this much, because of a stupid drunken hook-up when they were kids. This was where they were meant to be, winning together.

Jonny had a dream that night full of skin and tongues and teeth and woke up with a hard on that demanded attention. He tried to think of anything else as he touched himself, but he couldn’t help but think of those dimples and bright, clear eyes.

The lockout still happened. Jonny had never been more anxious - it was the longest he’d gone without seeing Patrick since his second 2007. But they kept in touch this time. He got texts and pictures and he was directly involved with the negotiations to end it and get him back. When Patrick came back, he crashed on Jonny’s couch for a couple of days instead of going back to his apartment.

Then Tyler Seguin was traded to the Dallas Stars. Jonny couldn’t help but feel a little relieved.

And after all that, they went on to win two more.

//

It wasn’t always perfect, they suffered through some shitty losses and bad press. There were concussions and crashed cars and broken bones along the way. But then Jonny and Patrick were celebrating ten years with each other, their dynasty, their success. It was unreal.

“Ten fucking years,” Patrick said, shaking his head and knocking his beer against Jonny’s. “Can you believe it?”

“Not even a little.” Jonny wasn’t even sure how to explain that it had really been nineteen years - but he’d gotten used to keeping that to himself. Each year that passed, he got more concerned that he’d have to go back, that he’d wake up and all of this would be gone. That he’d have to go back to the distant Patrick he’d never gotten to know.

They were shoved up next to each other in a booth at a quiet dive outside of the city, fairly sure they could get away without being recognized. They just wanted a few beers, a quiet moment to themselves, some time to reflect. Somehow, they ended up tipsy and reminiscent, recalling their early years.

“I got a secret,” Patrick said. His cheeks were all pink, lips shiny with beer. Jonny cradled his vodka rocks and raised his eyebrows.

“Yeah?”

“Remember that party, the one after you got your first goal?”

Jonny’s blood went cold. He pushed his drink away from himself. “Yeah, I do.”

“We were outside, getting you some fresh air, and I thought…”

Jonny swallowed hard and hastily grabbed his drink again to take a long gulp. He wasn’t sure exactly where this was going, but their legs were all pressed up together and Patrick’s eyes were half-lidded, and Jonny wondered how difficult it would be to leap over the booth and make a run for it.

Patrick grinned, then, and shook his head. “Nevermind, I’m drunk.”

Jonny laughed weakly. “Yeah, man, me too.”

But instead of moving away and letting the moment end, Patrick closed the distance between them and kissed Jonny softly on the mouth. It wasn’t demanding, or expectant, it was just short and gentle and Jonny went dizzy with it.

It was everything. He’d been waiting for almost twenty years for this. Patrick’s mouth was on his again and it took everything in Jonny’s body to keep from grabbing his t-shirt and and yanking him in again. But Patrick scooted backward and put his head in his hands.

“I’m sorry, shit, that was fucked up.”

This was Jonny’s chance. He could have reached over, squeezed the back of Patrick’s neck, encouraged him to come back. His fingers twitched toward Patrick, his mouth still a little wet with Patrick’s spit.

But his whole body urged him to stop.

He furrowed his brow. Everything good in his life happened because he and Patrick never took this leap. It could happen all over again; Jonny giving into Patrick and Patrick withdrawing and everything around them falling apart.

Panic rose in Jonny’s chest. Patrick was right there, he could just _kiss_ him, he could finally have this friendship and this man but the cost could be too high. Patrick peeked out at him and saw the expression on his face, then groaned in despair.

“Jonny, man, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. I fucked everything up.”

“No,” Jonny said quickly. “No, dude, you didn’t.”

Patrick sat up again. “I didn’t? I-”

“But we can’t,” Jonny said, and the words felt like daggers in his own back. “Everything we have, we just can’t risk it.”

“Oh.” Patrick’s shoulders slumped. “I get it.”

Jonny shook his head slowly. “We don’t have to talk about it.”

The words were out of his mouth before he could stop himself and Patrick’s whole face fell. He looked devastated and hollow, shoulders hunching in to protect himself from the disinterest Jonny was shooting his way.

It wasn’t fair.

Jonny wanted to reach out and tuck his face into Patrick’s neck, he wanted to tell him it would be all right. Instead, they sat in silence and Jonny watched the ice melt in his cup.

They split the tab and headed home separately, even though they were going to the same neighborhood. Jonny wanted to melt into the Uber’s stained seats and live there forever. He didn’t know if he’d done the right thing.

He texted Pat. _We good?_

_Always, dude._

It wasn’t fucking fair.

After that, Patrick was an arm’s length away. Jonny treated him just like normal, but it was damn near impossible. He burned with wanting to touch him, to give in to the magnetism between them.

He thought it was easier to love Patrick like this, with his friendship and their closeness, but it was the hardest damn thing he’d ever done in his life.

At practice, Jonny watched Patrick skate from the bench. He thought back to ten years ago, to the life he’d left behind, to the Patrick he’d left behind. Why hadn’t that been enough for him? At least then, he’d known Patrick didn’t want him, and he didn’t have to see him every day. Sure, it would have been painful to watch him get married, but Jonny didn’t know if it would be any more painful than being an arm’s length away from Patrick at all times and not be able to touch him.

“This is ridiculous,” Jonny said to himself.

“What?” Schmaltzy asked him, throwing back a swig of Gatorade. Jonny just shook his head and pulled his phone out to shoot off a text to Sharpy.

“Uh, I’m retired,” Sharpy said over dinner that night. “You’re supposed to leave me alone for at least a year.”

“Please, you called me twelve times yesterday because you tried a vegan hot dog,” Jonny grumbled.

“I thought you’d like to know that they are disgusting.”

Jonny laughed, and then was overcome by an immense sadness. “I gotta talk to you about something, and it’s going to sound insane.”

//

When Jonny finished, he was wringing his hands in his lap and couldn’t look up. He chewed on the inside of his cheek until the silence was unbearable, and when he gave in to meet Sharpy’s eyes, he had to close his own.

“You don’t believe me.”

“Tazer.”

Jonny opened one eye. Sharpy reached across the table and grabbed his forearm, eyes serious and voice calm.

“In no world would you ever joke about playing for the Boston Bruins. I believe you.”

A wet laugh bubbled out of Jonny’s chest and tears pricked at his eyes. Sharpy was smiling at him, squeezing his arm, and he tried desperately not to break down. He took a deep breath in and regained his composure.

“So, time travel is real, huh?” Sharpy mused. “I guess it’s not that weird. It’s not weirder than vegan hot dogs.”

“Shut up, Sharpy, I’m serious.”

“All right, so what’s your problem, Jonathan? You’ve lived ten years here, right? Won cups, got the C, famous beyond all reason, huge penthouse. And now,” he shrugged, “the guy you’ve been in love with for ten - uh, what was it, nineteen - years wants you back?”

“And I can’t touch him,” Jonny said. “Because then everything will start to go wrong. We’re not supposed to be together, Sharpy. I can’t ruin this for him.”

Sharpy stared at him. “You’re an idiot.”

“Hey, I’ve lived through it,” Jonny reminded him. “It’s not pretty.”

“You said you had it rough in the other, uh, timeline, right?” Sharpy picked a piece of pepperoni off his pizza. “Not him. You’re stressed out for yourself.”

Jonny frowned. “Well, maybe I am. Is that so bad?”

“I mean, yeah, a little,” Sharpy shrugged. “Sounds like you two could finally be happy.”

“I can’t,” Jonny said desperately.

Sharpy crossed his arms and raised his eyebrows at Jonny, which gave him an explicable pang of guilt. Fucking Sharpy. “So, what’s your solution, then? Quit the Blackhawks? Pine from afar?”

“I could go back,” Jonny said quietly.

Silence fell across the table. “Go back,” Sharpy repeated after a long moment.

“Back to where I should be. I had - I had ten years, right? Maybe my time is up. Maybe this is a sign that it’s time for me to go back.”

He pushed his hands against his face.

“Maybe none of this is real.”

“Okay, first of all, fuck you.” Sharpy threw a pepperoni at him and it landed in his hair. Jonny pulled out and placed it on the table. “I’m real. I have memories from before I met you, and I’m damn sure going to have memories after. You’re not God.”

Jonny didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing at all.

“Secondly, are you seriously such a martyr that you’d give up this life to go back and be miserable? Watch Peeks get married to some girl and admire him from afar and die alone in your apartment surrounded by a thousand cats?”

“I don’t know,” Jonny said, “maybe I’d finally be able to let him go. He doesn’t want me there. Here, I’m always going to wonder if I could have him.”

Sharpy heaved a long sigh. “You could just, like, get over him. He’s not that hot.”

Jonny kicked him under the table. Sharpy was kind enough to feign pain.

“What if you leave and like, we all get erased?”

Jonny pursed his lips. “Well, it’s like string theory.”

“Don’t start going all pseudo-science on me, Toews.”

“It’s not! Well, not really,” Jonny said. “When I, uh, leave, there will still be a Jonny here who didn’t leave. So, you might not even know the difference.”

“So, I’ll be stuck with you being a sad-sack either way.”

Jonny gave him a sad smile. “Yeah, I think so.”

“I guess you got nothing to lose in that case, huh? Except you go back to your miserable life with the Bruins, watch the love of your life get married, get _wicked_ depressed and try to come back here.”

Sharpy’s Boston accent was terrible.

“It’s better than this,” Jonny mumbled.

All the humor fell from Sharpy’s face and he leaned back in his chair. “You said you and me, we’re not really close, right? In the place you come from?”

“No,” Jonny said. “But I’ve known you longer, here.”

“Don’t let that keep going.” Sharpy looked dead serious, more intense than Jonny had ever seen him before. “You bother me, you got it? You need someone.”

“You hardly know me there,” Jonny protested. “I was traded after a couple of seasons.”

“I’ll do it.”

“Okay.”

“Plus, I want to give a message to the other guy. Mess with his head a little.”

Jonny gave a real laugh and rolled his eyes. “I’m going to miss you, Sharpy.”

“Nah,” Sharpy said, picking up a large slice of pizza. “You just gotta find me again.”

On the drive home, Jonny chewed on his nails. He kept looking at his phone, looking out the window, looking at his feet. He didn’t know if he should tell Patrick what he was doing. He didn’t even know if he was going to go through with it.

He paced a hole in his carpet back in his apartment. His first puck, the one that brought him here in the first place, sat in his trophy case. This time, it was surrounded by three cup rings, The Conn Smythe, the Selke, Mark Messier Leadership Award, and the Best NHL Player ESPY. There were magazine covers with him and Patrick, there were news articles about the two of them.

Giving it all up seemed insane.

He unlocked his phone and called Patrick.

“Sup,” Patrick answered, mouth clearly full.

“You couldn’t swallow before answering?”

“That’s what I said to your mom last night,” Patrick quipped easily, and God, Jonny was going to miss him so much.

“Fuck you,” he laughed. “I wanted to talk about something.”

There was a beat on the other side of the line, like Patrick swallowing and shoving his food away. “Yeah?” His voice sounded young and expectant and Jonny had to squeeze his eyes shut.

“Yeah, I,” he started, “I just. Fuck.”

“You can tell me anything, Jonny,” Patrick said.

“I know, that’s what’s so fucking hard about this.”

Patrick cleared his throat. “Are you sure this is a phone conversation? Should I come over?”

“No,” Jonny said quickly. “Definitely not, I couldn’t - I couldn’t do this if you were here.”

“You’re freaking me out, dude.”

“I love you,” Jonny said before he could stop. “These past ten years have meant the fucking world to me, Pat. I never thought I could have something like this.”

“Jonny.”

Jonny shook his head. “Hopefully, uh, we can figure something out. But things might be different, I don’t know.”

Patrick sounded like he was on the move, shuffling around like he was getting dressed. “I’m coming over, you sound insane.”

“No, fuck, don’t. I’m fine, I promise. I’m okay.”

He wanted to say _I’m going to miss you_ , he wanted to apologize, he wanted to kiss him again. But he couldn’t have any of that - whatever Jonny he left behind would have to deal with it. And maybe - hopefully - they could be happy.

“Just promise me we’ll keep winning,” Jonny said. “Be patient. Keep fighting. Keep your eyes on the goal.”

“Duh,” Patrick said, and Jonny could hear that smile in his face. “As long as you’re around, we can do anything. Dynamic duo, buddy.”

Jonny crouched on the ground. His eyes stung as he nodded and swallowed down the lump in his throat. “You got that right, babe.”

Patrick paused for a moment. “Is this - are you saying-”

“I gotta go,” Jonny said. “I gotta go, bye, Patrick.”

“Wai-”

Jonny slid his thumb across the screen and hung up.

He sat there for a moment, crouched in his fancy Chicago apartment, body taut and trembling.

Jonny bit his lip, clenched his fist, and stood up swiftly. He grabbed his first goal puck and held it close to his chest, whispering, “please. Send me back. Please.”

He pictured his Boston apartment, a little dirty. Dishes in the sink, loud traffic outside his window. He tried to smell the cigarette smoke that wafted up from the alleyway. He could almost feel the scratch of his couch, the feather soft pillows that he’d splurged on.

“Please,” he mumbled again.

“Just let me go back.”

“I have to go back.”

**2016 - Again**

Jonny opened his eyes.

A tidal wave of relief knocked him to his knees, right there on his old carpet. He breathed in the Boston air, digging his fingers into the rough stutter of the rug against his cheek. The reality of the last ten years crashed down hard around him and he shook, overcome with it all.

It was gone.

His friends. His achievements. His life. There he was, 27 again, and Patrick’s fucking wedding invitation was sitting on his counter. He rubbed his tears into the carpet.

Deep down, he knew it was the right choice. But the emptiness in his chest was a pain he hadn’t felt in a very long time. It spread through his limbs and down to his tingling fingertips, raw with carpet burn.

He laid there until he fell asleep - he had to skate in the morning.

When he woke up, he felt sore and shaky. It almost felt as if the last ten years of his life were really just a dream - he’d heard about it, people living full lives in an evening and waking up disoriented and confused.

But Jonny knew this wasn’t the case. Nothing in his life had ever felt more real than clinging to Patrick on the ice during a celly. Chasing Sharpy out of his room in his underwear because he’d stolen his suitcase. Starting his foundations, teaching children, meeting fans. It was all real.

And the good news was, at least, Jonny had a place to start in making it all happen again.

He still got dressed. Tried to remember the route to the Garden, only took one wrong turn. He smirked as he sat in his stall, trying not to gloat in his head about beating them in 2013.

Now, he had ten years of experience on them in a twenty-seven year old body. He tried to keep it humble, he didn’t want to be accused of taking any PEDs, but sometimes he couldn’t help but pull out a trick shot or play with his stick-handling a little.

He didn’t play the same as he would have with Patrick, though. That momentum, that chemistry, wasn’t really something he could recreate with the Bruins. He didn’t hold it against them.

There were times he missed his other life. He’d be reminded of an inside joke, or forget who was on what team, and he would wish he had someone from the other time to talk to. He made his choice, however, and he knew he had to live with it.

After a few winning games, he noticed he was getting odd looks from the rest of his teammates.

“I dunno, man,” Marchy said when Jonny asked him about it. “You just seem different. More mature.”

“Fuck you, I was always mature,” Jonny grunted. But Marchy just leaned back in his chair and held his hands up defensively.

“I’m just saying, dude, it’s like your play got better overnight.”

“Fine, I’ll start sucking if it’ll make you guys feel better.”

“That, too,” Marchand said, eyes narrowing as he pointed an accusing finger at Jonny. “You’re all, chill and flippant. A couple of days ago I thought we’d have to tell the team doctor you needed Xanax.”

“I can’t be cheerful?” Jonny asked. He felt a pang of guilt, gaslighting Marchy like that, but he didn’t want to raise any more suspicion. Not that telling the truth would land him anywhere but the loony bin, but he still had a cover to maintain.

At home, he stared at Patrick’s wedding invitation. For weeks. He checked off that he’d be attending, then erased it, then checked it off again. He thought about asking for a plus one. One night, he got a bottle of white wine in him and actually managed to seal it up in the envelope. It sat on his counter for another couple of months.

Patrick never texted him. It was summer at this point. Both teams were knocked out of the playoffs and Jonny hardly had fun watching the Islanders take on the Blues.

Eventually, Jonny mailed the RSVP. It had been just a few months, and he already missed Patrick enough that he’d sit there with a smile on his face and watch him marry this woman. Maybe then, he’d finally be able to let him go.

Patrick called him a few days later. “They’re talking trades,” was how he opened. Nothing about the wedding. Nothing about Jonny’s RSVP. But his voice came through, lisp and lilt, and Jonny felt like he was drinking cool water.

“Yeah? The deadline is soon,” Jonny said.

“They’re talking you, Jonny.”

Jonny’s heart sank. “They’re… you’re saying Boston doesn’t want me anymore?”

“Doesn’t want… fuck, Jonny, no way. The way you played at the end of the season? Everyone wants you. The Blackhawks want you back.”

Jonny stood up so fast his blood rushed from his head. “Are you serious? I could come back to-”

“Yes, dude. Your contract is up, this could seriously be up to you. We could play together again.”

All the joy Jonny had felt a moment ago seeped out of him and left him wilted, tired. He couldn’t go back and play with Patrick. That was the whole point of leaving him behind. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

Patrick grunted with frustration. “What are you talking about? You hated being traded. This is your chance to come back and win.”

But Jonny had had those moments, and he’d made it happen over and over again. He didn’t need that feeling anymore. He shook his head. “I don’t know, man. I’d have to think about it.”

“What is there to think about? Jonny, a Cup!”

It dawned on Jonny at that moment that just because he’d had that feeling before didn’t mean that Patrick had. He’d won three with Jonny and didn’t even know it, never had that moment. And Jonny could help Patrick do it, again, for the first time.

“A Cup,” he whispered back. He could practically feel Patrick’s enthusiasm through the phone.

“Just think about it, man. We could fill this place up.”

Jonny was yanked back to 2008, the second time, when a younger Patrick had said those same words to him. He shivered.

“I gotta go,” Jonny said. “Hey, uh, congratulations on the wedding.”

“Thanks,” Patrick replied, clipped.

“I sent my RSVP.”

“I got it.”

“Okay.” Jonny had no idea why Patrick was being so weird, but it wasn’t his business. “I guess I’ll see you there?”

“Yup. Bye, Jonny.”

Jonny had forgotten what that high felt like. Patrick wanted him back on the Blackhawks. _This_ Patrick, the one whose friendship was still tentative, who Patrick wasn’t sure if he knew. The other Patrick, he knew almost everything about him. They were the same, in a way, but grew up differently. Everything after 2007, it molded the both of them.

Jonny wasn’t sure if he wanted to know this Patrick, the one he couldn’t have.

But maybe he owed him. Jonny had spent the last decade of his life making choices just for himself, and maybe it was time to do something for someone else. Maybe if he could life a Cup with this Patrick, everything would come full circle.

Jonny had never felt certain about anything, and this was no exception.

//

Sharpy stared hard at Jonny, unblinking.

He was in Cape Cod for the weekend and decided to swing into the city to say hello to Jonny, a decision he now looked like he deeply regretted.

“I know it’s a lot to take in,” Jonny said sheepishly. “I understand if you don’t believe me.”

“Of course I don’t believe you.” Sharpy shook his head incredulously, arms crossed tight over his chest. “I would never, in any universe, eat a tofu hot dog.”

Jonny laughed and buried his face in his hands. He could always count on Sharpy. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think you actually ate it. I think you just wanted to mess with me.”

“Now _that_ sounds like me,” Sharpy said thoughtfully. He leaned forward on Jonny’s couch, elbows on his knees, and continued to peer at him. “Any particular reason you decided to let me in on your secret?”

“I won three Cups with you.” Jonny anxiously folded his hands in his lap. “You mentored me. And, uh, you told me to find you.”

Sharpy ran a hand through his hair, effectively mussing it up. He still looked great. “You know this is crazy, Toews, right?”

“I know.”

“I have literally no reason to believe you.”

“I know, Sharpy.”

“Then why do I?” Sharpy stood up, turning away from Jonny, throwing his hands up incredulously. “I should be booking you a one-way ticket to the psych ward, but I fucking believe you. This is infuriating.”

Jonny didn’t know what to say. He waited while Sharpy talked mostly to himself, hoping that at the other end of the rant, Sharpy would calm down. After a few minutes of silence, Jonny cleared his throat. “Uh, sorry?”

“Yeah, whatever,” Sharpy said grumpily, sitting back down on the couch. “Time travel exists, cool.”

“I don’t think it’s time travel, exactly,” Jonny started, but Sharpy held up a hand.

“I am not a scientist and have no inclinations to become one. Tell me about the Cups, dude.”

Jonny laughed as he filled Sharpy in on their wins. He even reluctantly mentioned the two years Sharpy spent in Dallas, before his return to the Blackhawks.

“Man,” Sharpy said, “even in an alternate universe I have to play with Tyler fucking Seguin.”

“Look.” Jonny let out a soft sigh and met Sharpy’s eyes. “We were really good friends there. I miss you.”

Sharpy softened in such a familiar way that Jonny had to turn away from it. “We can do that,” he said earnestly. “For real, Toews. You’re pretty okay, for a time-traveling freak.”

Jonny swallowed the lump in his throat and turned back to Sharpy. “Oh, I have a message from the other you.”

“This oughta be good,” Sharpy mumbled. “Okay, hit me.”

“Uh, he said, ‘tell Tazer about Petunia.’”

Sharpy froze. “That _son of a bitch_.”

“What?”

“You forget you ever heard that name,” Sharpy hissed, pointing a finger right in Jonny’s face. “You got it? Man, other me is a jackass.”

“Leverage,” Jonny mused. “I like it.” Sharpy sighed miserably.

It was easy to fall into this routine with Sharpy, no matter what time period they were in. For the first time, Jonny could see the potential for a friendship with this Sharpy, maybe even something as solid as they’d had before. It sparked something inside of him; something inspiring.

“Maybe you can help me with something,” Jonny said. “A big decision.”

“Say no to tofu, Toews.”

“Shut up and listen, Sharp.”

//

At Sharpy’s encouragement, Jonny signed with the Blackhawks in July of 2017, three months before Patrick’s wedding. He moved back to Chicago in an apartment down the street from where his old apartment would be built in a couple of years.

In August, Patrick showed up at his door with a bag slung over his shoulder.

“So, uh,” he said, “she kicked me out.”

Jonny blinked. “What’d you do to her?”

Patrick flipped him off and shoved past Jonny into his living room. “It wasn’t my - Jesus, don’t you ever clean? - it wasn’t my fault.”

“Shut up, I just moved in.” Jonny pulled some dirty clothes off the couch so Patrick could sit down. “So, you got dumped and decided to come to my front door?” He headed to the kitchen to find some of that fancy beer the organization sent him as a welcome that he wouldn’t drink. He gave one to Patrick.

Patrick popped the cap off and sunk into the couch. “Nah, something about how she felt like I was in love with the _idea_ of her, but not her.”

“What does that mean?”

“Fuck if I know. I thought I loved her.” He looked up at Jonny. “How do you know?”

Patrick’s eyes bore right through him. Jonny whisked away to the kitchen to fix himself a drink.

“I don’t know, man,” he lied, tossing some ice into his glass. “You want to be around them. You want to make them happy.”

“Well, what’s the difference between that and, I don’t know, stalking? Obsession?”

Jonny actually thought about it for a moment. “Because you do things that have nothing to do with how you feel,” Jonny said. He ran a hand through his hair. “You want them to be happy despite you, not for you.”

Patrick squirmed. “I don’t know if I felt like that. I bought her gifts and shit, but making her happy just meant she wouldn’t be mad at me.”

“That sounds fucked up, Patrick.”

“I’m making it sound worse than it really was.”

Jonny took a long gulp of his drink.

“Have you ever been in love, Jonny?”

The “yes” was right there on the tip of his tongue. That first day that he and Patrick opened up their suite door after they’d stopped rooming together so Patrick could steal the remote, Jonny was in love. Lifting that cup with him and seeing the tears at the corner of his eyes, Jonny was in love. Saying goodbye to him on the phone in 2018, that was love.

Wasn’t it?

“I don’t know,” Jonny said, surprised by his answer. “I’ve felt… a lot, for people. But I don’t know if any of it was like, selfless.”

Patrick gave him an imploring look and Jonny sighed.

“I just mean, maybe it was love. But I made a lot of shitty choices.”

“You listened to me when I asked you not to talk about, uh, that thing,” Patrick said suddenly. Jonny shut his mouth as Patrick continued staring at him. “Even though you wanted to. When you got traded, you believed me when I said I had nothing to do with it.”

Jonny’s heart began to thud in his chest as Patrick spoke. Part of him wanted to run, but he stayed put, squeezing his glass so hard he was worried it might burst.

“You went out to eat with me and forgave me for not talking to you after you left. Then you RSVP’d _yes_ to my fucking wedding to someone else.”

Jonny set his glass down hard on the table.

“And you came back to the Blackhawks. You could have won a Cup with the Bruins this year, easy, and you came back to win it here because I asked you if you would. Any of that sound selfish to you?”

“Yes,” Jonny said, his voice rougher than he’d expected it to be. “Yes, because I just wanted to be around you. I wanted to be friends with you.”

“You did it to make me happy,” Patrick said, “even though you’d be miserable.”

Jonny didn’t have any more words. It was too much.

Patrick leaned forward. “You in love with me, Jonny?”

“Yes,” Jonny admitted.

“Cool.” Patrick shifted on the couch, shaking his head despondently. “I’m sorry it took me so long to figure it out.”

“Why did you shut me out?” Jonny asked, in a rush. The question had been on the tip of his tongue for so long, and he finally had the chance to ask. “The first time?”

“I don’t have an excuse. I was a kid, I was freaked out.”

Anticlimactic. “That makes sense,” Jonny reasoned, and Patrick laughed.

“Come on, hold me accountable for something.”

Jonny lowered his eyes. “You have- you have no idea what I went through to try and forget what happened.”

Patrick made a hurt noise in the back of his throat and Jonny never wanted to hear it again. He looked Patrick up-and-down. He was younger, much younger, than the Patrick he left behind. But he had a remorse in his eyes that reminded Jonny of the haunted, hollow look he’d gotten when he turned the other Patrick down in the bar.

Jonny didn’t want to see that.

“You can stay here,” he offered. “If you want to get away from everything for awhile.”

Patrick pursed his lips. “I don’t want to bug you.”

“You brought a bag,” Jonny said, nodding toward the suitcase in the corner.

Patrick laughed and threw his hands up, eyes darting around the room in favor of meeting Jonny’s. “Yeah, okay, you caught me. I’m not really up for spending a bunch of time in my own head right now.”

Jonny set Patrick up on the couch with probably too many pillows and a thick comforter from his bed. He apologized as he pushed it into Patrick’s arms. “It’s not washed.”

Patrick pulled the comforter up to his face and gave Jonny a small smile. “Smells all right to me.”

The flush that threatened to sneak all the way up Jonny’s neck thankfully stopped just below his shirt collar. “Let’s watch something,” he said hoarsely, nodding toward the television.

They watched some HBO crime drama in silence. Jonny desperately tried to keep his leg from jiggling, but the anxiety in his veins was too powerful to sit through. Patrick didn’t mention it, didn’t chirp him, and Jonny remembered what it was that made him so appealing in the first place.

The other Patrick, he’d tease Jonny, needle at his insecurities, and laugh all the way through it. That Patrick knew a Jonny on his second try, the guy who could get it right, the one with a head-start. It wasn’t a surprise that he’d fallen for Jonny.

This Patrick, though, knew Jonny at his purest, and still wanted to be around him. The thought made his stomach churn with something undefinable.

He had a restless night. His ceiling flickered with lights from passing cars outside and Jonny counted them until dawn broke. All he could think about was Patrick out there on his couch, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths, leg dangling off the side of the too-small sofa. He wanted to slip out from under his sheets and fetch Patrick, drag him back into Jonny’s bedroom so they could sleep pressed up against each other.

Sleep finally took him just after sunrise.

He woke up to the smell of coffee and butter and sat up sluggishly. Patrick was cooking breakfast. Of course he was. Jonny stretched and hopped out of bed, not bothering to throw on a shirt as he walked out to his kitchen.

Patrick had made a stack of pancakes while fresh coffee bubbled in the percolator. “I see you’ve made yourself at home,” Jonny said, and Patrick only jumped a little before he turned around.

“Oh, hey,” he said around a grin. He had flour on his shirt. “I made- oh, fuck. You can’t eat pancakes, can you? That’s why you didn’t have any mix.”

It was just like Patrick to assume the only reason a household wouldn’t have pancake mix was because of allergies. In this case, he happened to be right. “I appreciate the gesture.”

Patrick looked crestfallen. “You can have the coffee, though, right?”

Jonny walked into the kitchen and slid his fingertips across the small of Patrick’s back as he passed him. “You tried.”

“Hey, screw you,” Patrick said good-naturedly. A faint blush was streaked across his cheeks.“If you weren’t all frail and whatever, this would have been a total hit.”

Jonny snorted and poured himself a mug of steaming coffee, then sat at his kitchen island and watched Patrick clean up after himself. “You don’t have to do that.”

Patrick gave him a dry look. “If I don’t, who’s going to? You’re a total slob.”

It was like that for the rest of the day: gentle banter and light, fleeting touches. Jonny was reminded of that night at the party, when they slowly built up a charge between them until they both snapped. The way Patrick’s eyes would linger on him and how he’d deliberately brush up against Jonny when he passed him just added to the tension.

They left the apartment for a jog in the afternoon at Jonny’s behest. Patrick’s sweaty shoulders kept bumping into Jonny’s, slippery and warm, and Jonny didn’t have it in him to put any distance between them. Once they got back to the apartment, damp and high on endorphins, Patrick just pulled his t-shirt off and tossed it on the floor as he walked toward Jonny’s bathroom.

The curve of his back sent a shiver through Jonny’s whole body. Patrick even had the nerve to look over his shoulder at Jonny with a dimpled grin and _wink_ before he disappeared behind the door. Jonny picked the sweaty shirt off of the floor and threw it into his hamper, grumbling as he waited for his turn to shower.

When dinner rolled around, Jonny declined Patrick’s offer to cook in favor of ordering in from his favorite Greek place down the street. He hadn’t had it since he’d been back, because it hadn’t been built yet.

“Their stuffed grape leaves are amazing,” Jonny said as he cradled his phone against his ear. Patrick eyed him suspiciously.

“This place opened, like, a week ago.”

Jonny shrugged. “I like Greek food.”

Over his rice pilaf, Jonny watched Patrick wolf down his lamb gyro and kick up his feet on Jonny’s coffee table, patting his stomach with satisfaction. A wave of inexplicable energy suddenly seized Jonny, and he felt like he was back in the Winnipeg stands watching Jim Slater score a goal. He wanted to leap over all his furniture and fit himself into Patrick’s lap, press against him from head to toe.

He swallowed his food and pretended the sweat as his temples was from the heat of the food.

Three episodes into some sitcom Patrick had insisted on, Jonny brought him a second beer from the kitchen. Instead of taking it from Jonny’s hand, Patrick grabbed his wrist and tugged him down onto the couch next to him.

“You don’t have to sit in that recliner,” Patrick said earnestly.

They gravitated closer throughout the evening. They scooted minutely toward each other when Patrick would laugh at the show and jostle Jonny’s arms. Jonny was practically vibrating right out of his skin by the time they were presented with the _Are You Still Watching_ screen from Netflix. Thanks a lot, Netflix.

“Um,” Jonny said, “another one?”

Patrick tilted his head as he looked over to Jonny. He looked thoughtful for a moment, like he was going to reach over to grab the remote, but he shook his head and leaned in instead.

Jonny had read a lot while he was away. He’d pored over all kinds of books, from gardening to philosophy to poetry. He’d had time to learn a whole new vocabulary, in both English and French. And despite all of that reading, he still didn’t have the words to describe a kiss with Patrick Kane.

He kissed Patrick the way he had in 2007, the first time. He kissed Patrick the way he wished he could have in 2018. He kissed him like he might not get another chance, because there was no way the universe would let this slip through his fingers again.

Patrick kissed back slowly, like he was scared of spooking Jonny. It was a surprise when Patrick slid off of the couch and kneeled on the carpet in front of Jonny, eyes flickering up imploringly. He touched Jonny’s wrists and slowly dragged his fingers up his arms, thumbing into the crook of his elbows. Jonny parted his legs and Patrick scooted forward to rest between them, his arms encircling Jonny’s shoulders as the kiss deepened.

Jonny had imagined holding Patrick like this a thousand times in his life. They fit together as well as Jonny thought they would, even as Patrick tried to push in closer. He wound an arm behind Jonny’s waist and tugged him forward until Jonny toppled off of the chair and effectively pinned Patrick to the carpet.

“Oops,” Patrick said, not looking sorry at all.

If Jonny were a prouder man, he might have sat up and forced Patrick to talk. He might have had the dignity to keep his pants buttoned and his shirt on. But Jonny’s pride was nowhere to be found.

They made out on the floor for longer than Jonny wanted to admit. Their pants ended up somewhere around their ankles and Jonny realized, grinding his hips down into Patrick’s, how much better this was than humping his hotel mattress.

He laughed softly into Patrick’s mouth at the thought, and Patrick peeked one eye open to glare at him. Jonny smoothed Patrick’s hair back and kissed his throat. Patrick came alive beneath him, wriggling his hips against Jonny’s until their cocks rubbed up against each other.

Patrick swore. He grabbed Jonny’s ass and pulled him down hard, moving his hips in small, frantic circles. Jonny’s vision blurred with the intensity of it. It was like Patrick had been waiting for this just as long as Jonny had.

“You remember this?” Jonny asked into the hollow of Patrick’s collarbone.

“I never forgot,” Patrick said breathlessly. “How could I, Jonny, you feel so _good_ \--”

He cut himself off with a shaky breath, fingers flexing on Jonny’s ass. Jonny couldn’t resist kissing him again. All those times he thought Patrick was looking right through him, knowing that Jonny got off to the thought of him, Patrick could have been just as guilty.

Jonny sat up just long enough to get Patrick’s jeans off before leaning right back into it. When Patrick’s legs came up around his waist, it was all Jonny could do not to cry out with how right it felt. He pumped his hips down and mouthed at Patrick’s jaw and ears until Patrick shook underneath him.

“I wanted you to fuck me.” Patrick cupped the back of Jonny’s head and continued to pepper him with kisses. “Not just that night. All the time. Couldn’t-- couldn’t deal.”

Jonny’s face was so hot that he had to bury it in Patrick’s t-shirt while he jacked his hips forward. Those words rattled around in his head and brought him even closer to the edge.

Patrick came first. He clenched his eyes shut and grit his teeth and keened, shooting in his boxers. Jonny felt the wet spot blooming against his cock and shook his head. He didn’t want it to be over yet.

But then Patrick gave him that look, all lazy and content, unfocused eyes and lazy smile. It was the same face Jonny had been picturing for years and it sent him spiraling hard into his own orgasm.

They didn’t clean up. They just curled into each other quietly, hands roaming and exploring. Jonny wondered if he’d just imagined the entire thing. After all the time he’d spent running away from Patrick, in the end, all he’d had to do was wait.

“I’m an idiot,” Patrick said eventually. “I can’t believe you’re still here after… everything.”

Jonny hummed and kissed Patrick’s temple. Because he wanted to. Because he could. “You can make it up to me,” he said. “I’m a patient man.”

“What if it takes a long time?” Patrick asked.

Jonny was done running. For the first time in his life, he felt certain.

“I have all the time in the world.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, a huge thanks to:  
> 
> 
> * [kaneoodle](http://kaneoodle.tumblr.com) for beta work!  
> 
> * [liveinfury](http://liveinfurry.tumblr.com) for advice and cheerleading!  
> 
> * [namesinrafters](http://namesintherafters.tumblr.com) for graphics and cheerleading!
>   
> [join me on tumblr!](http://hatrickane.tumblr.com)  
> 


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